


Dreaming of Things

by Krasimer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awesome Greg Lestrade, BAMF John Watson, Because fuck Moffat, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Dreams are odd, Everything past the end of episode three was a dream, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Hospitalization, I Killed Him, Irene Adler did not happen, John is not the death, M/M, Moffat is not a gift, Moriarty is Dead, Moriarty is the death, Season 2 onward did not happen, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is not the death, Sherlock panics about John nearly dying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 23:54:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15762333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krasimer/pseuds/Krasimer
Summary: “You, Doctor Watson, were in a coma,” Lestrade turned fully towards him, eyebrows furrowed, and his mouth pressed into a hard line. “The building exploded. Brave, that. Being inside a building with Moriarty and staying there when he blew it up.”John inhaled deeply through his nose, closing his eyes again for just a second. Thought seemed impossible, exhausted as he was. “Shrlok?”“He’s fine,” Lestrade took a sip of his drink and sighed. “Bloody brilliant detecting consultant as he is, he didn’t have the common sense to get out of the building either. When we found you, you were sort of…sitting over him. Like you’d covered him with your body. You actually got most of the damage.” He sat down in the chair next to the bed, sighing again. This time, it was like all the air was escaping him. “You nearly died a couple of times, according to the doctors.”“Mgh.”“Seriously,” Lestrade pinned him with a look. “You, John Watson, nearly died. Your heart stopped a couple of times while in surgery.”





	Dreaming of Things

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” was the first thing he heard when he opened his eyes.

The bed he’s laying in is rough, blankets coarse beneath his fingertips, but it still feels miles more comfortable than some things he’s had to bed down on.  On the front, there had been tents and rocky temporary rests and other such things and from the looks of it, this is a hospital.

His entire train of thought halts with the realization.

Managing to turn his head, he saw Lestrade. The man looked exhausted, probably just as much as he felt, and he clutched a cup of something hot and steaming to his chest like it was the answer to the universe and the meaning of life.

“Mmhm,” was all he managed to say for a second. Then: “Wasgon?”

“You, Doctor Watson, were in a coma,” Lestrade turned fully towards him, eyebrows furrowed, and his mouth pressed into a hard line. “The building exploded. Brave, that. Being inside a building with Moriarty and _staying there_ when he _blew it up._ ”

John inhaled deeply through his nose, closing his eyes again for just a second. Thought seemed impossible, exhausted as he was. “Shrlok?”

“He’s fine,” Lestrade took a sip of his drink and sighed. “Bloody brilliant detecting consultant as he is, he didn’t have the common sense to get out of the building either. When we found you, you were sort of…sitting over him. Like you’d covered him with your body. You actually got most of the damage.” He sat down in the chair next to the bed, sighing again. This time, it was like all the air was escaping him. “You nearly died a couple of times, according to the doctors.”

“Mgh.”

“Seriously,” Lestrade pinned him with a look. “You, John Watson, nearly died. Your heart stopped a couple of times while in surgery.”

_I could stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart._

John jolted as memory finally connected, trying to sit up. Lestrade’s hand on his shoulder stopped him, easing him back down. “Hey, hey, don’t do that.”

“Mority.” John winced at the shapes he couldn’t make with his mouth.

“Moriarty?” Lestrade tried to confirm, then nodded. “We found a body. A man, about thirty-five, dark hair. That sound right?”

John nodded.

“His head was crushed,” Lestrade made a face, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Bit of concrete. The explosion shook the entire building and some parts of it were newly renovated, but some of it wasn’t. Willing to bet he hadn’t planned on being inside when it blew.”

He lapsed into silence.

“Do you know what happened to him?” Lestrade asked after a time, bringing his coffee up again. “Did you happen to see anything?”

He remembered the building shaking, so much more than even Moriarty had been prepared for.

He remembered pushing Sherlock towards the water with one hand, grabbing Moriarty by the collar with the other.

Most of all, John remembered throwing Moriarty into the path of a large piece of concrete.

He hadn’t stood still to watch what happened to the man, had thrown himself in the direction he’d tossed Sherlock to shield his head, but he vaguely remembered the noise of concrete and flesh meeting. The noise of something squelching out underneath high pressure.

But Sherlock had been more important.

John shook his head. “No,” he managed to croak the word out. All he had been focused on, in that moment, was that Moriarty had threatened Sherlock. Had been teasing him and chasing him and poking into his life for over twenty years.

He had wanted that threat _removed_.

Lestrade smiled almost bitterly and nodded once more. “Alright. Well, we’re going to go through what we found on his body – there might be some clue as to what else he might have set up.” He stood up. “Give me a call when you’re to be released, I’ll swing by.”

John waited until he had left before sighing and relaxing back into the bed.

None of it had happened. That was something he would have to remember; none of the nightmares had been real. A woman named Irene Adler hadn’t captured Sherlock’s attention, John hadn’t gotten married to a woman who shot Sherlock and nearly killed him, Sherlock hadn’t jumped from the roof of St. Barts.

None of it had happened.

A quiet knock on the door drew his attention and John looked up.

There, sitting in a wheelchair and looking quite put-out, was Sherlock. He had a bandage on his cheek, one around his left wrist, and what looked to be a few stitches on his eyebrow. “Lestrade said you were awake,” he began awkwardly.

John smiled at him. “Chr?”

“Fractured my knee when the building collapsed around us,” Sherlock looked up at him, wheeling closer with awkward movements. Even a genius could be defeated, it seemed, when it came to not being able to walk on his own feet. “It will heal, but it will take some time. Your head was,” he paused, making an annoyed face as he tried to jerk the wheels to get him closer. After a few seconds, he gave up, rolling his eyes. “You were hit in the head by a piece of concrete.”

Shrugging one shoulder, John closed his eyes for a second.

“It matters very much to me,” Sherlock snapped, his temper flaring for a moment before settling. “From what Lestrade told me, you were keeping my head sheltered. It could have hit me.” He narrowed his eyes. “What good does it do to protect me, not yourself?”

John rolled his head over to look at Sherlock.

“…Oh.” Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “ _Oh._ ” He took a deep breath, eyes wide and mouth going slack. “ _Oh!”_

It was the sound he commonly made when a missing piece of the puzzle fell into place and John almost laughed when he heard it. Hopefully, the right piece had fallen into place – he’d hate for Sherlock to think he had only been flashing back to the war or some such thing.

“You,” Sherlock’s hands were shaking when he rested them on the edge of the bed. “And I?”

John twitched his fingers, reaching for Sherlock’s hands, smiling when their fingers twined together.

“Well then,” Sherlock blinked a couple of times. “That’s…Good.”

His hands tightened around John’s and the consulting detective smiled. “There should not be a change to living arrangements, however, as we’ll still need the room. I need room for my experiments and you’ll need that room, just…” he swallowed his next words, but John had a feeling they were, ‘Just in case you change your mind about me’.

With as much of a shake of his head as he could manage, John did his best to smile at Sherlock.

He would never get tired of the man – It was impossible for him to get tired of someone who always left him in such awe and astonishment. Sherlock knew that he got on everyone’s nerves, sometimes, he had warned John about it in a small way when they had been about to move in together, but John was not one to be pushed away.

Sherlock was someone he was willing to risk his life for, would kill for, would protect with his dying breath if it came down to that.

And he would never change his mind about him.

With a squeeze of his hand, John felt his eyes growing heavy again. “T’red.” He muttered.

“Go to sleep, then,” Sherlock’s voice was unusually soft, both of his hands wrapped around John’s. “I’ll still be here when you wake. We’ll go back to Baker street together.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck it, why not. 
> 
> I hate Moffat and his writing is stupid. Plot holes I could drive a truck through because he's good when he has a time limit and a set amount of story to write. He is not good when it comes to full series, however, because his writing collapses under its own weight. Plot thread upon plot thread until it collapses and nothing works out. Everything has to be exciting, nothing can ever be normal.


End file.
